


A Long Way from Home

by TaeAelin



Series: Adam and Nigel [6]
Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannigram AU - Fandom, Spacedogs - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Banter, Dark Fantasy, First Meetings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Little Mermaid Elements, M/M, Merman!Adam, Misunderstandings, Prince!Nigel, Spacedogs, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaeAelin/pseuds/TaeAelin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Spacedogs 19th Century Mermaid!AU</p><p>When Nigel’s ship goes down in a storm, a mysterious stranger swims him to safety. On returning to his father’s kingdom, Nigel discovers there is more to the man than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nigel awoke on the shore, the line of water sucking against cold, pale sand. At first he thought the cove sparkled with beads of blue and purple, some kind of rare phosphorescence dredged up from the deep. Then his eyes cleared, and he saw it were only shreds of wood and sail sparkling in the moonlight, the last of his ship and lifeblood splattered at the seam of the waves.

He shuffled his head against the damp, blinking at the empty sky. A face peered over him, upside down and smiling widely.

“-the _fuck_ -!”

The man scrambled back as Nigel sat bolt upright, pain twisting in his stomach from the exertion. The beach tipped and swam in his vision, and Nigel quickly turned aside, coughing up more seawater than he thought he could have possibly swallowed.

When he looked back, the man tried another smile, far more nervously this time.

“Sorry about that,” Nigel croaked. When the man only tilted his head to one side, Nigel cleared his throat, trying again. “Sorry you had to see-”

His eyes travelled to the man’s lap, and a very familiar pair of officer’s trousers, emblazoned with the royal crest. Squinting at his own legs, he saw a ripped pair of cotton under-britches.

“-did you swipe my fucking pants?”

The stranger peered where Nigel glared back and forth, warming to a bigger smile once more. Then he slowly nodded, and continued doing so until Nigel held up both hands.

“Okay, okay. It’s fine.”

Swiping his nose on his sleeve, Nigel could hardly believe that was the first question to cross his lips. The ones that mattered floated lifeless to the surface, and he shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone.

“Were you on the _Siren_?”

The man’s face fell, his stare slipping to his knees. He shook his head, unsure.

“You were on another ship then? A trading vessel?” Nigel took the man in. He did have a foreign look about him, all pale skin, features sharp and soft at once. Even with the most modern advances in navigation technology, so much of the east remained uncharted, and Nigel well knew there were boundaries that even the most ambitious of explorers dared not cross.

The stranger’s eyes flicked over the ocean, his lips fumbling soundless over the pattern of Nigel’s words, not seeming to comprehend them. He shook his head again.

“And you don’t speak the Queen’s English, huh?” Seeing the man’s features twitch in anguish, Nigel regretted making note of it. But still, he did seem to _understand_ …

“Did you save me?”

Nigel’s voice came coarse, barely a murmur over the frothing shallows. On the cliffs above, he could see a trail of oil-lanterns lighting a path down the narrow slopes. An echo to his distress flare, several hours too late. Or maybe they caught a glimpse of the wreckage.

He didn’t want either of these things to be a fact. He wanted to imagine the lifeboat had made it, that his crew had landed in a more sheltered inlet, scouts sprinting to the castle as soon as their feet touched ground. As the trail of lights blurred, Nigel sank against the sand, barely noticing the stranger guiding his head into his lap. He had been at sea far too long for it to be any more than a fantasy.

And fantasies never came true.

The man had both arms around his chest, squeezing gently whilst Nigel sobbed into his hands. He was nodding in answer. Nigel didn’t see. But he held on.

-

It were nights like this that seemed to last forever. First had been the shouts, joyful, as the search party recognised their Prince. Then the voices washed numb as they saw it were _only_ their Prince, and bar the presence of the quieter man, only a scattering of debris to commemorate the grand voyage. They had brought blankets for an entire fleet, and at a loss to realise what had come to pass, heaped enough of them over Nigel’s shoulders for ten. The blankets wrapped round the foreigner were just as hastily thrown to the ground, his blue eyes wide and fearful, as if staring at a pile of barbed nets rather than wool.

Nigel picked one up, holding it out encouragingly. Perhaps such luxuries were not the custom where he came from, but it was a long enough walk back to the castle without being soaked and shirtless. Pale arms caged around his smaller frame, the man cowered once more at the sight of the outstretched material. Nigel let it drop.

At the crest of the rocky outcrop, the court messenger was waiting with Nigel’s horse, and the stranger seemed a lot happier. Whilst Nigel heard his instructions to go straight to the King, his new acquaintance smiled and petted the mare. Habitually skittish, she seemed to take to the soft clicks and touches like an old friend, whinnying with unusual enthusiasm. Despite the gaping hollow at the centre of his chest, the sight made Nigel feel somewhat warmer, if not more whole. Swinging up into the saddle, he reached an arm down, palm open and steady.

“It’s only a half mile from here. And I don’t think she’ll leave without you anyway.”

It was a poor invitation for the person to whom he owed his life, even poorer when Nigel realised he hadn’t even given his name. Blinking, the man tentatively stretched his arm back, placing his hand carefully within Nigel’s rougher clasp.

And then he pulled.

Completely unprepared, Nigel near found himself wrenched from the saddle, his foot coming free of the opposite stirrup, his hand grabbing for his horse’s mane. The man immediately let go, jumping back in alarm as Nigel let out a few choice words. Surprise turning to amusement almost as quickly, Nigel settled his rump back into the seat, only a jot of dignity lost.

“Darling, that’s me asking you to hop _on_ , not the other way around.” Nigel gave the horse’s withers in front of him a meaningful pat. The stranger was a lot stronger than he looked, and for the first time since he’d spat out half the sea… Nigel wondered how far they actually swam. When the last flash of lightning had turned over the deck, land hadn’t even been in sight.

This time, the man seemed to catch on to the idea, swinging himself in front of Nigel without need for assistance. He sat light, his balance surer on horseback than whilst they’d stumbled up the hill. When the mare broke into a smooth canter, he hardly seemed to be holding on at all, curls whipping back against Nigel’s face as they soared over the highlands. As the man threw him a glance, Nigel saw his eyes were watery and elated, his entire face lit by a wide grin. It reminded Nigel of the first time he had ridden as a child. Smiling in spite of himself, he curved an arm around the man’s waist, his shout swallowed by the wind.

“Hold on-”

Needing no heel, the mare lengthened her stride to a gallop, charging swift all the way to the palace gates. When they finally stepped down, Nigel’s legs couldn't have been more wobbly if it _had_ been his first ride, and he found himself as breathless and voiceless as the stranger.

-

“Enough.”

It was the kind of scraping courtesy that sent courtiers scurrying from sight. For Nigel, service to the Royal Navy had weathered him to his father’s tone, King or no. He stood tall, bracing himself for the storm.

“Do not tempt me with your explanations, I know how tides can turn. The greater miracle is not how swiftly disaster can strike, but that you are here to tell of it at all. You were thirty mile off the coast when we saw the flare. No man can swim that distance in calm waters, let alone the tempest of God.”

Nigel sensed it were not the right moment to mention he had also been unconscious.

“It is a miracle, and heaven strike me down if I throw such a gift to sink. You will henceforth abandon these whimsical notions of sailing the seven seas, and prepare for marriage, as heir to the throne.”

Nigel felt a surge at his pulse. He was used to his father’s rants and rages, but there was a finality to his command that stoked his heart to anger. His younger sister were by far the superior candidate, her knowledge of politics and diplomacy outranking most of the court councillors by her early teens. But law dictated that the King’s eldest child would inherit all, and it seemed Nigel’s wish to receive a military education had been humoured long enough.

He knew argument would be futile, but it didn’t matter. If the navy had taught him anything, it were never to surrender without a fight.

Nigel inhaled, summoning the best of his negotiation skills, along with all the patience he could muster. The wind left his chest only moments later, as he heard a loud bang echo from his chambers down the hall, several nondescript shouts following close behind. Frowning, Nigel bowed, pardoning himself to a father who seemed only too happy to see him depart.

Hastening his pace as he rounded the wing, Nigel tore open his door with no small degree of fortitude. The first thing he saw was the foreigner standing on his writing desk, half dressed in some sort of silk brocade shirt and flailing his arms rather wildly. The second thing was his best friend Darko, brandishing a feather-ink pen like he were conducting some invisible orchestra, yelling in Romanian at the top of his lungs.

“Excuse us.” Nigel nodded to the guest, then proceeded to grab Darko by the frills of his necktie and promptly drag him from the room.

With Darko summarily pinned to the wall outside, Nigel felt a good deal calmer than he had all evening.

“What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” Nigel hissed, twisting the outlandish decorative accessory until Darko spluttered, holding both hands up in apology. His remorse soon faded as Nigel let go, coiling to a heady glare.

“Get a grip, _Your Grace,_ ” Darko managed, unable to sound quite as languid as usual. “Am I the only one in this castle with any fucking common sense?”

Nigel raised an eyebrow, and Darko looked where he was staring, seeing the fountain pen had leaked black ink all the way over his hand, wrist, and most of his shirt sleeve. Darko threw it down in disgust.

“Listen,” his drawl fell to a whisper, an urgency behind it that even Nigel couldn’t ignore. “I sent a rider to the local port as soon as he arrived- I knew something wasn’t right.” Darko jerked his chin toward the chamber door, and the man presumably still on his desk inside.

“The messenger just got back. I had him check the harbourmaster’s log books.” Knotting his eyebrows, Darko leaned in even closer, as if afraid the very walls would hear his speech. “Nigel, no offshore traders have dropped anchor in the last two days. And the coastal fishing boats are all moored and tethered- weather was too bad for anyone to get as far out as you.”

Nigel scowled. There’d hardly been time to question the stranger much further, and he wasn’t quite sure the man would be able to answer if he did. The chances of an unregistered ship charting the exact same location, sinking at the very same time as the _Siren_ was… well, it would be a coincidence, he’d give it that.

“Pirate vessel?” Nigel knew it didn’t accord as soon as the suggestion left his lips. Pirates were few and far between now that the Royal Navy had sank its teeth into the Western quarter.

Darko’s mouth twisted, eyes blackening with suspicion. “Even pirates cannot sail without a mast. Did you see anything on the horizon?”

Nigel gritted his jaw. In truth, he remembered no more than splintered shouts and flashes, the snapping of rope, determination suffocating to terror. Darko placed a hand at his shoulder, quieting.

“Nigel, what if he _was_ on your boat? Some cabin rat, scullery boy, a stowaway, even. Look at the way he doesn’t speak. What if he struck some deal with the devil, for his salvation!”

Nigel exhaled. Then, very slowly, he gave a sad smile. “Darko, I’m sure every man aboard would have struck the same bargain, or any man who ever faced the battlefield, for that matter. God, the Devil… if such barters could be made, this world would be filled with voiceless souls, and heaven and hell with far too many favours.”

Darko stared at the ceiling, unconvinced. “Perhaps it is. Perhaps they are.”

-


	2. Chapter 2

When Nigel entered his chamber a second time, he did so with far greater care, pulling the handle back gently so as not to startle his possibly overwhelmed friend. The man was sitting now at least, legs tucked up to his chest, hands covering his ears as he shivered back and forth. Already pale, he hardly looked much better in the firelight, eyes flickering shut every time he darted a glance at his surrounds.

Nigel sighed. He shouldn’t have left him alone. Whoever he was, and wherever he was from, it was clearly a far different place to the one he was in now. Darko’s abysmal behaviour aside, the man had also managed to arrange his silk brocade shirt backwards and upside down, and Nigel reached to help untangle him.

Whilst his fingers worked at the tiny clasps, Nigel hummed, not quite sure how to start. He sensed the man stole a peek at him, by the time Nigel looked up, the blue eyes were buried behind his knees once again.

“Darling…” Nigel cleared his throat, easing the fussy shirt over the man’s trembling arms. “I’m really going to need another name for you, you know.”

He’d intended the statement to be light-hearted, but he sounded worn enough that he barely recognised himself, let alone any humour in it. The man nodded, solemn. And then he reached for a sheet of loose-leaf.

Nigel froze.

With an elegance not often seen outside the literati, the man was slowly tracing a letter on the blank page with his finger, a thin smudge of ink following behind. And then another. And another. Nigel could barely swallow by the time he had finished, much less breathe.

_Adam._

“You… you can write?”

Reluctant, Adam gave a single flinch of his head. _No._

“But you can read…?”

Adam bit his lip, the smooth slope of his nose momentarily pinched. _Some._

“Okay.” Nigel finished fixing the last of his buttons, stepping back to indicate the job was complete. He’d never put much stock in court attire, far too many bows and lace for practicality. But, seeing Adam in the ruffled green silk… he had to admit, the man looked strangely beautiful, almost how Nigel imagined a prince _should_ look. No longer crumpled into a mess of shaking limbs, his legs were tucked neatly to one side, hands folded in his lap. He managed to make the desk of scattered papers look like the brace of a royal chariot, and Nigel found himself grinning, imagining himself sitting right beside.

_Fuck_ he must be exhausted.

“Did you manage to eat something?” Nigel nodded to the silver platter that had been brought up. On closer inspection, it appeared that a bite was missing on almost every one of the cakes and puddings, as well as the decorative floral arrangement at the centre.

One side of Adam’s mouth hitched up at the corner. Nigel could have sworn he looked almost guilty.

“Sleep, then.”

Not unkindly, he offered his hand for the second time that evening. There were any number of chambers where Adam could get some rest, the most decadent only a short walk down the hall. Wary, Adam accepted his palm, fidgeting himself to his feet. He stopped short when he saw where Nigel was leading, a trace of panic returning to his features as his free hand fluttered around his neck.

Nigel didn’t try and tug him any further. He supposed if he had been ambushed by Darko and his ridiculous necktie, he wouldn’t be so keen on venturing out into the neighbouring wing either. He gave a husky cough, very much hoping his next words wouldn’t seem as ungentlemanly as they perhaps sounded.

“Would you prefer to take my bed?”

He hadn’t even nodded toward the four-poster before Adam’s face brimmed to a smile, and he bounded for it as if having hoped to be asked the whole time. Nigel ran a hand through his hair, the ribbon tying it back still stiff and salty. One day he would definitely have to visit Adam’s lands, if only to discover where it was the proper custom to leap up and down on a mattress a couple of times before deciding it was alright to sit on.

Turning back to the food and drink arrangement, Nigel poured some of the lukewarm tea into two cups, offering one to Adam as he sat at the opposite side of the bed. Sipping at the liquid, he hadn’t realised how raw his throat felt until he swallowed, the rest of his muscles seeming to ache in harmony. Adam looked at the infusion suspiciously, then, seeing Nigel drinking, took a small slurp.

As Adam’s whole face scrunched up, Nigel cocked an eyebrow, half-expecting him to spit the mouthful right back out again. But Adam managed to get it down, eyes watering as he fixed Nigel with his best impression of a grateful smile, then quickly setting the cup aside.

Nigel chuckled, untucking the bedsheets in case Adam felt cold. “No tea, huh? You’ll have to let me in on what would make you feel a bit closer to home, else I’ll end up being a worse host than I am swimmer.”

Adam didn’t seem to hear him. His ears twitching a fraction, he tilted his head to one side, attention thoroughly affixed over Nigel’s shoulder. Turning, Nigel saw nothing more exciting than his bookshelf, the content of the volumes split between nautical histories and some fairly ghastly folklore tales from his younger years. It was the latter to which Adam was now pointing, mouth coming slightly ajar as he narrowed his eyes at the battered spines.

“This?” Shuffling from the mattress, Nigel pulled the rather large book from the display, a shimmer of dust following in its wake. “Children’s stories.”

Mesmerised, Adam shook his head, holding out both hands for the text. His fingertips travelled over the leather jacket, which had been embossed to look like scales and a fin. Sweeping the rest of the grime from the cover, Adam peered at it close enough that his nose almost touched the illustration, two twin eels wrapped around a trident.

Stifling a yawn against the back of his hand, Nigel watched whilst Adam pored through the yellowed pages, trying to remember where the book even came from. He felt it had been a gift, though not from his father. Adam seemed most interested in the artworks, all hand-painted before the recent invention of the printing-press. He stopped when he came to the picture at the very centre, nudging the book across the blanket so that Nigel could see. A host of fish-tailed men, triumphant in their last stand against the evil kraken. It had always been his favourite too.

Adam continued flipping through the tome, pausing when he came upon another image, a man crawling from the waves to the shore. This time, his face creased with pain, a finger brushing over the text below. Nigel leaned forward.

_“The watchers in the water saw what the palace did not. The royal heir was not made for land, but for the sea. Taking human form, the merprince set out to save the young man, and return him to the kingdom for which he was born.”_

Adam fretted the bedcovers in both hands, his glance seeming to flit everywhere but Nigel’s eyes. Nigel felt a surprising well of emotion beneath his ribcage. He wasn’t used to seeing people upset, let alone caring if they were. Softly, he reached his hand, large enough to still both smaller ones.

“Adam, it’s alright. If anyone ever needed to be rescued, it probably already happened a long time ago.”

Shivering, Adam took a deep breath. When he finally met Nigel’s stare, he didn’t look away. Nigel tried not to blink either. He almost felt he were drowning in the blue of those eyes, or staring at the sun far too long. A wave of fatigue slowly keeling him over on the bed, he could have sworn he heard a voice between the blankets and the shadows.

-

When Nigel woke up, every single part of him felt either stiff or swollen. His mouth was too dry, the pillow beneath him too damp, and between his ears he could hear some distant ringing, as if the storm still roared beneath the lull of his thoughts. Freeing himself from the blankets, he groaned in dismay on realising he must have fallen asleep right next to Adam, hardly the chivalrous nor gracious gesture he had intended on offering his bedchamber.

Hearing Nigel’s none-too-subtle attempts to sniffle himself back into some kind of presentable state, Adam popped his head up from behind the divan, his smile bright and curious in the chalky sunlight. Spread across the rug in front of him were several artefacts, not least of which included Nigel’s compass, tobacco pouch, tin of shoe polish and a dessert fork. Where he had got the fork soon became clear as Nigel started coughing, which caused Adam to stand and make his way to the breakfast tray with a certain resolve.

Unlike the night previous, nothing had been touched except for the teapot, which Adam had removed all the tealeaves from before they had a chance to brew. In place, Adam stirred a spoon from one of the accompanying jars into the water. Testing the concoction with his finger, Adam gave him a very serious look, then tipped the entire rest of the jar in as well. Nigel tried to clear his throat.

“What on earth are you doing over there?”

Adam held up his hands- _wait wait_ \- then carefully poured out a teacup, having the foresight to bring over the tiny jug of fresh cream as well. He handed them both to Nigel.

Nigel frowned, took a nervous sip, then very nearly choked it back out in a laugh.

“Is this a cup of _melted sugar_?”

Enthusiastic, Adam pushed the jug toward Nigel’s mouth too, clearly assuming they were to be drank separately. Nigel took an appeasing gulp of cream, not sure which was worse. But, seeing Adam’s expectant smile, his hopeful glance from Nigel to the breakfast tray and back again, Nigel held his breath and took another.

“Thank you, darling. Much appreciated.”

Flushed with pleasure, Adam retreated back to his objects. The compass in particular seemed to fascinate him, and he tipped it from side to side, watching the arrow spin in unison. Nigel watched him, transported far enough away from his senses to take another sip of the sugar water by mistake. Grimacing, he hid both cups in his bedside drawer whilst Adam was distracted.

“Want me to show you how it works?”

Wrinkling his nose, Adam pause mid-way through shaking the compass to his ear, then with the most resolute of nods, held it out.

Nigel felt more pleased than he expected he should. Returning to his bookshelf, this time he fetched a geographical globe. Placing the sphere in front of Adam, he crouched beside, then rearranged to sit cross-legged when he realised he was still towering over the smaller man. Gently, Nigel pointed to a crescent of land, gold-embossed paint slightly worn around its edges.

“This is us,” he spread an arm to indicate the castle around them, the shore beyond. “Where you are now.”

As Adam shuffled closer, Nigel traced a line up to the very top of the globe, stopping when he reached the span of white marking its axis.

“And this is the North Pole.”

Adam was still holding the compass flat in his palm. Softly, Nigel tapped the arrowhead of the needle, then drew his finger through the air, back to the globe.

“A compass will always point north.”

Caging his own palm beneath Adam’s, Nigel let their hands travel round the globe until the needle had swung in the direction of the painted icefields.

“…and by knowing what direction you’ve come from, you can also figure out which way you’re supposed to be going.”

Adam peered from the spherical map to the arrow in his hand and back again. Slowly, the sides of his mouth curled upward, his eyes wet and sparkling as he lowered the instrument to his lap. As Nigel made to withdraw his hand, he saw Adam dart a fleeting movement, fingers first brushing at Nigel’s knuckles, then twining in between. His grip was firmer than Nigel would’ve imagined, his own hand falling undone against the softer skin. He’d never thought something so simple could’ve felt so reassuring, making his heart swell and shudder at once. It wasn’t a feeling he recognised, even less knew what to do with. Swallowing, he tried to turn his attention back to the globe.

“Where… where’s home for you?”

When Adam creased his brow, Nigel placed his free hand on his chest, then pointed back at the crescent-shaped land mass.

“My home.”

Adam pointed at himself, questioning. Nigel gave an encouraging smile, nodding toward the globe.

Darko burst through the door.

“Christ almighty!” Nigel shouted, entirely unprepared for the sight of Darko’s voluptuous purple tailcoat and stockings first thing in the morning. “Haven’t you ever heard of ringing the servant’s bell, transcribing a letter, getting a messenger to convene your note to my quarters, and requiring them to make use of the brass knocking device upon my chamber door!”

“I have not,” Darko clicked his tongue, raising a conspicuous eyebrow at Adam, who was doing his best to hide behind a globe less than half his size. “Nor was I aware you had _company_.”

“It is not my business to make you aware!” Nigel fumed, Darko’s stare toward the book of fairytales left open at his bedside doing nothing to quell his tone.

“Agreed,” Darko clapped his hands, then strode across the room to pull back the curtain tapestries. “But it _is_ my business to make _you_ aware, that the King has announced a Royal Ball for this evening, in honour of your return.”

Nigel leapt to his feet, his annoyance at the intrusion welling to the brink of his control.

“My _honour_? Do you realise over forty men have just died in these waters?”

Nigel could feel his pulse stinging at his windpipe, the reality of the last twenty-four hours rearing from the depths. Realising both his hands were wrought mid-air, and he dropped them to his sides, at a loss for what to do with himself.

“I know,” Darko muttered, gentler this time. “And do you realise, this is still your father we speak of? And that the future of your line wouldn’t halt for a thousand men?”

Nigel sank, the weight of the words near pulling him under. When he spoke again, his voice was flat.

“So this talk of marriage...”

“Is no idle threat,” Darko finished. “Several noble families will attend the celebrations, however talk has it that your match has already been made. All else is simply a formality.”

His head now throbbing as much as everything else, Nigel scooped up his tobacco pouch from the rug, wholly desiring to make use of it. He had no sooner unrolled the leather wrapping when he found himself pinching a thumb and forefinger over his nose instead, making a fairly incoherent splutter as he held back a sneeze.

From behind the globe, Adam flinched in alarm. Darko rolled his eyes.

“You’ll be glad to know it’s a masquerade ball, since you look about as fantastic as you sound. You know, first impressions and all.”

Nigel gave him a withering glare, a more apologetic blink directed toward Adam.

“I’ll be fine.”

As Darko left the chamber, Nigel knelt back down, surprised to feel Adam clutching at his hand again. Nigel gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, feeling it tugged more crooked than fond.

“Sorry about all that. A lot of court politics, really…” he trailed off, his attempt to be light-hearted coming up short. He felt Adam guide his hand forward, resting Nigel’s palm against his chest. Even through the silken smock, Nigel could feel the man’s blood ran curiously cool, his heartbeat low and steady.

Slowly, Adam moved Nigel’s hand to the globe, until his finger pointed directly at the Baltic Sea. His face was gritted in concentration, beseeching, desperate, or both. Nigel pulled away.

“I’ll have the servants prepare you something to wear for this evening.”

It wasn’t until the foreigner had been escorted to the tailor’s quarters, head craning over his shoulder the whole while, that Nigel allowed himself to even think about it.

Then he got up, slammed the book on his bedside table closed, and shoved it right back onto the shelves where it belonged.

-

Nigel fumbled with his lapels, the dress coat feeling no less suffocating than a suit of armour. The upper half of his face concealed beneath a black eye-mask, he wondered if he didn’t look more like a burglar than an opera singer.

A violent pounding on the door interrupted his thoughts, and Nigel wrenched it back to reveal Darko, dressed head to toe in full musketeer regalia, more feathers in sight than the first day of duck season. Nigel tried a small smirk.

“So, when are you changing into your costume?”

Receiving the obligatory wallop at the side of his arm, Nigel relented to a chuckle. Darko glowered, throwing his pocket handkerchief down with such passion that no doubt remained that he must’ve practiced the gesture several hours in advance.

“I can see you’ve made it into yours. I barely recognised you in that gentleman-disguise.”

“The three-foot brim on that hat would hardly be aiding your vision.” Nigel winked, already noting the first lines of the piano starting up downstairs.

Darko gave a theatrical bow, then jerked his chin to the grand staircase.

“Please don’t make me greet the visiting dignitaries alone.”

It was as close as a peace offering as his friend would ever get, and Nigel appreciated it more than he’d ever say.

As they jogged the steps two at a time, Nigel took a quick survey of the ballroom, deducing most of who-was-who despite the masks.

“Where’s Adam?” he muttered, an unfounded sense of unease coiling round his ribcage.

“I think he stepped outside. Wasn’t looking so good, last thing I saw.”

Nigel stilled their pace with a hand at Darko’s shoulder, inwardly cursing himself. “What do you mean, _wasn’t looking so good_?”

Darko gave a tense shrug, accidentally-on-purpose knocking into Nigel’s elbow as the King observed their approach.

“Nigel. Not a moment too soon.” The crowd whipped aside as Nigel’s father strode toward him, eyes and ears following in tow. “The Duke of Vlachs awaits an audience with you in the antechamber. With him is someone else I would very much like you to meet.”

Nigel gave a respectful nod, waiting until the attention had died down before heading in the advised direction. Gathering a glass of punch from the fountain display, he paused until Darko joined him, not needing to voice the question. Darko gave the slightest nod to his left.

“Second-last door, opposite the minstrels.”

Nigel made for the exit, the Duke of Vlachs as far from his mind as his father’s wishes were from his heart.

-

In the cool evening air, Nigel gathered his bearings, feeling them fall away just as swiftly as he saw Adam sitting on the edge of the wooden pier. The man didn’t notice his approach until Nigel had sat down beside, and even then, hardly stirred. His already-pale complexion had taken on something of a wan pallor, a flute of punch held limply in one hand, the other gripping the wooden planks for support.

Nigel unfastened the mask from his eyes, his hands falling heavy in his lap. Adam continued toying with the stem of his glass. It looked hardly touched, but then again, he didn’t seem like much of a drinker. Nigel nodded to the swirling liquid.

“Still not as good as the tea, huh?”

Adam tried to smile. It made Nigel feel even worse.

“Adam…”

From inside the castle, Nigel thought he heard a yell. Though, after a wincing sip of his own punch, he reasoned it might easily have been raucous laughter.

“I… feel you were trying to tell me something earlier today. Something that I may not have been ready to hear.”

Adam glanced up. Tucking one leg beneath him, he set his drink aside, a faint flush of colour returning to his cheeks.

“And I… I apologise for that. It’s no excuse, but being in the navy has influenced my opinion on certain things, somewhat… and there are some… values… about the sea, that run deeper than…”

Adam was nodding furiously, his hand gestures becoming more excited as Nigel stumbled over his words.

“Adam, what I’m trying to say is, I, ah, I don’t so much care about where you come from, as who you are…”

In between muffled trumpets and clarinet song, the shouting from the ballroom seemed to be growing louder. Either someone was having a very good time on the dancefloor, or a very bad one.

“…so, if you’ve been trying to tell me that you are a professional smuggler, and your ship sails unregistered within the bounds of my father’s trading area, I want you to know that doesn’t matter to me, because-”

The sound of a door banging open collided with Nigel’s words, the familiar yelps of Darko’s entreaties overshadowed by the roar of his father’s wrath. Adam’s face crumpled from anguish to terror, and he scrambled to his feet in time to shelter behind Nigel.

The king stopped on seeing the pair of them, his temper boiling from rage to revulsion.

“What is the meaning of this? By giving insult to the Duke, you give insult to me and everything we stand for!”

“Everything _you_ stand for.”

The words had left his mouth before he had time to put his emotions in check. His father’s face grew dangerously calm.

“Like it or not, Nigel, you bear my name. You stand for everything this family stands for. And you always will.”

With Adam whimpering behind him, Nigel wasn’t certain he could withstand much more, least of all when his father peered down at the smaller man.

“ _That face_ …”

Nigel had only heard the tone once before. He had been young, the King had been drunk, and they’d never spoken of it again. It was the only time his father had ever mentioned the legend. _The watchers in the water._

If some part of Nigel thought he might voice it again now, it was crushed as the King raised his hand, not a word needed to signal the palace guards. Turning heel, he strode back toward the castle, never looking back. He wouldn’t watch what they’d do to Adam, nor did he need a reason to order it. Superstition or convenience, the outcome was one and the same.

As Adam legs buckled beneath him, Nigel swung around, catching him round the waist. The guards marched forward from the outskirts of the castle, lanterns lighting their path toward the jetty. Frantic, Nigel looked from side to side. There were no boats nor passageways, no secret doors through the underbrush, neither horses nor chariots waiting to speed them away.

“Adam, you have to stand up.” Nigel croaked, desperately shaking the man at the shoulders. He had huddled over on the pier, seemingly struggling to breathe.

_Never surrender._

“Get up!” Nigel sobbed, trying to haul him to his feet. “Stand with me now!”

Adam slipped from his grasp. Nigel saw his skin was turning a faint shade of blue, his whole body convulsing as he pointed toward the ocean.

_Not without a fight._

“Take him.”

Drawing his sword, Darko stepped in front of them, expression as nebulous as it was firm. Nigel stared back, incredulous.

“You brought a _real musketeer sword_ to my costume ball?”

Darko merely shrugged. “The faux ones didn’t look anywhere near fancy enough.”

Nigel swung back toward Adam, inhale strangling in his windpipe. Darko faced the oncoming guards, looking older than Nigel had ever seen him, and suspected ever would again.

“You going or fucking what?”

“Darko-”

“Get out of here.” Darko threw a last wild grin over his shoulder. “Fucking overdramatic asshole.”

Hoisting Adam over his shoulder, Nigel ran down the pier, the clash of steel echoing in the quiet behind. His tiny sips of air were growing thinner by the second, the water at either side of them still far too shallow.

“ _Hold on, hold on_ ,” Nigel whispered between gasps, nearly tripping as his boot caught on a fracture of wood. There was a howl and a splash behind them, unabated laughter from Darko ringing in the aftermath.

They came to the final rung, the sea churning and biting at the last of the wooden poles below. There was nothing comforting about the sight, and Nigel felt his arms freeze with panic. He squeezed Adam to his chest, never wanting to let go.

“I can’t swim, Adam” he whispered, shaking at the ledge. “Not well. Not like this.”

Over the snarl of the wind, the cursing and slashing seemed to fade into the sky, the lamps from the castle dimmed in the reflection of Adam’s eyes. The eyes that never left him, not as they hugged, not as they fell, not as they hit the water, sinking in a shroud of bubbles and black.

Nigel kept his gaze on those eyes, bright and blue, smiling at him whilst a flicker of moonlight curled in the darkness around them. He could glimpse it now, Adam’s shimmering tail, haunting and serene at once.

Holding his breath, Nigel smiled back.

_If you come with me, you can’t go home._

The voice wove through his thoughts as they floated beneath the surface, sad and hopeful and every bit as gorgeous as he imagined. Gently, Nigel untangled his right hand, placing his palm at the centre of his chest. Then, slowly, he moved his finger toward the centre of Adam’s.

At first, he wasn’t sure it made any sense. He was lightheaded as it was, his last gulp of air already burning at his lungs. But Adam reached his free hand to the back of Nigel’s neck, gliding forward until their lips met.

Nigel felt himself come apart. In the rift of a second, he was back on the deck of the _Siren_ , before the storm had hit, before the rigging had torn, before the mast had knocked him overboard. He was gazing down at the sapphire-blue eyes in the water, the face that seemed to follow him whenever the sky turned red, the sea to shadow. Some of the sailors had joked he was searching for his guardian angel. Nigel had always felt he were searching for himself.

He opened his eyes. The water around him was pale and crystal, a haze of white froth marking the distant surface, buttery sand several feet below. He could breathe, the ache at his ribcage fading with every swallow. And he could speak.

Seeing Adam clearly for the first time, he knew he didn’t need to. Not now. Not yet. Pulling the man into an embrace, Nigel kissed him back.

-


End file.
